Musings
by Lomesir
Summary: The thoughts and observations of Twilight characters at strategic points in their existences. :Marcus now posted:
1. Jasper

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of its wonderful characters. So sad.

_Musings_

Jasper

March 13, 1863

Moral is very low of late. Even as I write this, men are outside my tent, complaining very audibly about… the lack of food. What else is there to complain about? An army marches, fights, lives on its collective stomach. Wait— I'm complaining about complainers. Idiotic. Let me start again. This is a brand new journal.

Hello, my name is Jasper Whitlock. Major Whitlock, to my men. As of last week, I am officially a Major in the Confederate Army of the Confederate States of America. I've heard my men grumble about this; they think I'm too young for the post. And I _am _young—20 years. I won't lie, though: I am a bit nervous.

This war, this civil war with the Union Army and the United States, is raging far beyond what anyone could have ever dreamed. So many young men being lost and a lonely sweetheart at home for every one of them, I suppose. Oh, listen to me. Rambling on like some poet. I have to start over. Again.

Two months ago, President Lincoln of the United States (damn bastards) issued his "Emancipation Proclamation", so now we have slaves running north as if hell itself were behind them. The Union declared that all slaves in their army were to be considered free, so their numbers swelled—trouble for us, as you might imagine. And just this week the Union declared that all able-bodied men between 20 and 45 years of age had to fight. Perfect. We're running low on everything, mosquitoes are sucking our lifeblood from us like little winged wraiths, and malaria is spreading around the camp like wildfire. It's the melons that those doctors gave to us, I swear. Everyone knows that melons cause mal-

Damn it all! I hate mosquitoes! Hellions they are, forever biting and sucking, biting and sucking! What could ever move a creature to drink blood is beyond me. Pardon me for my sudden written outburst, but there was one of the above mentioned demons on my cheek. I swatted it, so now there's ink on my face.

Hm… I hear horses. Time to move out again. Until later.

_Major Jasper Whitlock_

March 16, 1863

I'm back from another mood-lifting talk with my men. Kind souls from a local town, bless them, gave us some extra provisions. Some of my men were in dire need of medical attention as well as quinine, so I managed to talk some of the townsfolk into lending us their church. I'm writing this from the little bench behind the pulpit. Just a minute—my second-in-command is coming.

* * *

Dear Lord. Jonathan, my second, is heinously injured. Mauled, more like. A Union bullet shattered his leg. He's only nineteen and he needs to have it amputated. Just the thought of the saw… horrible. Jonathan doesn't think he needs to have his leg parted from his torso, but I've seen what happens to limbs that are left untended like that. Maggots, rotting, etc. I've seen everything in this horrible war. Oh—the doctor. He's here. 

…

Doctor… Smithfield, I believe, is cleaning his knife as I write this. I calmed Jonathan enough to persuade him to part with his beloved left leg. I don't know why it is, but persuasion comes quite easily to me. Back home… my heart aches at the thought for my farm… back home I could easily talk my sister Sarah into doing anything I wanted. Sarah always blamed my hair – honey blond, she called it. My friends said I'm just charismatic.

Oh. It's time.

* * *

I never want to see someone in that much pain again. It's strange—I'm a fighter. I truly am, but I can't stomach seeing my friends in pain. Perhaps it's because I have fairly few friends to begin with. I've always been more of a scholar; books and the written word are my true friends. Sarah always accused me of being "stuffy"; her word, not mine. Serious? Sure, I'd give myself that. But I wouldn't say stuffy (stupid slang word, in my opinion). I'm not much for humor anymore, though. 

Even when my men sneak off to carouse with locals in taverns and pubs, I can never lift myself from my few books and many letters. I write in this journal to practice my hand, sloppy as it is.

Oh, not again. Duty calls. Until we meet again…

_Major Jasper Whitlock_

March 20, 1863

We are on the move, currently encamped in some woods near some sort of river/large creek. The wildlife is truly amazing here. Wild flowers and vines that I've never seen before. I've made a few sketches in the back of this journal. Nothing very fancy, as I can't really draw.

_Major Jasper Whitlock_

March 22, 1863

I have a confession to make: I broke my vow. I vowed to use this journal to chronicle the doings of this war, but writing down my true thoughts and observations is somehow more pressing. Just today, in fact, a lovely young lady in a town we went through tried to give me a felt hat. I must tell you, she was a vision. Even with the heavy clouds, her pale skin seemed to radiate. Her eyes were obscured by shaded-glasses, but I'm sure that they were as beautiful as the rest of her. If it weren't for my current preoccupation and the fact that I'm nowhere near home, I might have courted her.

Anyway, I insisted on paying her for the hat, using "that look" that Sarah said I can make, and the young woman giggled and curtsied, and nearly danced away. It was all very surreal. As I watched, she went into the nearby woods. Her house must be in there.

I've just looked over these last few paragraphs, and I can only come to one conclusion: I'm deranged. Listen to me, going on about a girl that I only talked to for 30 seconds. But I can't get her off my mind. I don't even know her name! Surely someone in town knows. The sun is down now, but I know the way. I thought I heard some of the men talking about going back to town. They left a little while ago, but if I go through the woods, I can catch up with them I'm sure.

And maybe I'll even meet… her.

_Major Jasper Whitlock_


	2. Esme

Disclaimer: I no own.

_Musings_

Esme

August 10, 1921

Dear Diary,

When Astrid gave me this book and asked me to write down what I was feeling, I thought that I might have burst out into tears right there at my desk. Is it really that obvious that I'm utterly miserable? It must be, because otherwise ten year-old girls wouldn't walk up to their teacher and bestow them with gifts. But now that I've had time to reflect, I realize how much of a blessing this little blank book is. After everything that's been inflicted on me, it's good to have someone to tell, even if it's only this book by day and my pillow at night. I shall make a list of my problems right now, on this page, and make it my mission to address and eliminate each one.

1. I'm a "widowed" and destitute pregnant woman.

2. I'm running low on tea bags.

3.My family is searching for me, yet I don't want to be found.

4. I have no more red ink to mark papers with.

5.No man I know of will even look at me. Am I really so awful to look at now that I'm pregnant?

As for the first one, well, there's nothing I can do about that. Charles… he deserves being left alone. That man is the root of all my troubles, and – I dare myself to write this – I hope he puts himself into a situation that ends up with all his hopes for a future stripped away, one by one, until he's reduced to nothing more than a sobbing, blithering idiot.

Strange. I do believe I heard the Hallelujah Chorus. I must write similar things in the future.

It's time to go. I have school to teach.

_Esme Anne Platt Evenson_

August 11, 1921

Dear Diary,

I woke this morning with the distinct impression that I was sleeping under a boulder. Further investigation revealed that no, it was just my baby again. Sleeping with a child in your belly is the only part of pregnancy that I really don't like. Wait— that's a lie. I don't like being without a husband in this nothing town, but there's nothing I can do about that. I got up with great difficulty, as I'm in my eighth month. I wanted to make myself some tea, but there were no more bags in the little jar. A minute later I found that there was no food in the icebox, either. As I write this, I am eyeing one of my pupil's lunches…

…what a darling. She gave me her apple. And a certain someone will be receiving very high marks for as long as I'm a teacher here.

These happy children before me make me think of who I was so long ago. I was happy, truly happy. I ran about and sang silly songs, and even had a few infatuations. There was this doctor… I still think about him. Maybe, if I fall off out of a tree again, he'll appear in the middle of the night at the hospital I'd be sent to, and he'd take me away to whatever heaven he came from. Yes, diary, he was that handsome!

Oh, the girls are watching me.

I just told them that I was writing about "my husband". In your wildest dreams, Esme. That was ten years ago, you goose of a woman.

_Esme Anne Platt Evenson_

August 13, 1921

Rain. Rain. And still more rain. My roof is leaking, the windows rattle, and my small yard is not much more than six-inch deep mud. And guess what? I had an attack of morning sickness this morning, and now my pillow is completely useless until it stops raining and I can actually do some laundry. Disgusting.

It's Saturday, so I may as well take all sixty cents of my savings and go buy groceries. Here's a list:

-Tea bags (Earl Grey)

-Greens

-Dried apple

-Thread/Needles

My umbrella fell apart in the last windstorm, so I must sprint to and from the store. Wish me luck, diary!

Oh Lord, I'm conversing with an inanimate object.

_Esme Anne Platt Evenson_

Later That Day

I can hardly hold my pen, I'm shaking so much. It was while I was at the store, and—let me start over at the beginning.

I ran to the grocer's(eight months pregnant—that must have been a sight), only getting a little bit sopped on the way. After wringing out my dress, I composed myself and walked in. I bought all of my things, and I even had a little money left over to buy a cookie with. Things were really starting to shine with me. It was still raining, of course, so I had to calculate the quickest way through the gale.

The second I stepped into the rain, my footing gave way in the mud, and I slipped down into the muck and rocks of the road. The entire front of my dress was ruined, and my food was instantly inedible. Nearby teenagers were laughing and staring, and I was more humiliated then than I had ever been in my life. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I heard this gentle voice beside me and a hand carefully pulling me up. "Are you alright?" a young man asked. I looked up at the owner of that hand, and saw the second most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on.

His hair was reddish brown, like brass. His eyes… were just like that of the doctor in my dreams: gold and gentle. His skin, though, was a very unhealthy bone white. He couldn't have been more than 18, perhaps even 17. I simple stared for a minute until a sharp pain on my elbow jerked me out of my stupor. I looked down at my muddy arm and could clearly see a tiny cut on my elbow. A miniscule amount of blood was in the corner, yet the boy jerked suddenly, and I swear that his eyes darkened, odd as it sounds. He stood up so fast that I almost missed it and half-ran away, towards the outskirts of town. When he had gone about a dozen yards, he broke into a run. I sat there, rain running down my face, making my hair stick. My undergarments were visible through my dress, and my purchases were lying in the street, forgotten.

It took every ounce of will I have to get up and walk home. I don't think I can take much more of this. I'm staking everything on my baby. Boy, girl, I don't care. It'll be just me and my child. Oh, my heart is beating like mad just thinking of it! I could sing.

Drat. The roof is leaking right over my bed. Again.

_Esme Anne Platt Evenson_

August 14, 1921

It's stopped raining! Praise the Lord! I am right now sitting in my absolute favorite place: Horizon Cliff. Supposedly, the cliff is called that because you can see the horizon from anywhere on it, but I know that that's not true. There are too many trees blocking your view on three sides. It's only on the highest part of the cliff that you can see the whole state.

I love it here. I'm above all the noise of human life and smoke from fires. It's so… peaceful. Only here, I think, can I find happiness. Oh—random thought: I accidentally fall off the cliff, and the handsome doctor saves me.

Esme, you are such a swoony ninny.

What can I see from my cliff…

Fields

A river (not sure which one)

A railroad

Mountains

A neighboring tow—

No. Oh, please God no. It's too early.

My water just broke.

* * *

I'm in love. My sweetheart is in my arms right now, in fact. He has a mop of light brown hair, and angelic face, and he's only a little bit shorter than me.

His name is Carlisle.

Did I mention that the doctor who set my leg ten years ago was named Carlisle? When the nurse was writing the birth certificate, she asked me what I wanted to name my child, and I didn't even think about it. Without looking up, I just said, "Carlisle David."

Carlisle for the man whose face comforts me, and David… because it means "beloved". And that couldn't be truer.

When I looked down into my son's face, I started to cry tears of happiness—I never thought I'd cry tears like that again. And you know what? I knew then that as long as I have Carlisle, I would never ever be truly sad again.

_Esme Anne Platt Evenson_

August 20, 1921

Babies are adorable! Everything they do is small and cute! Carlisle's hands are so tiny, they can't even wrap around my finger when he holds my hand. His tiny eyelids flutter when I gently blow in his face. His hair is so fine and downy that I just run a finger through it in wonder. When I do this, he looks up at me with his curious blue eyes as if to say, "What are you doing, silly woman? You have your own hair to mess up!"

He's going to be a heart breaker when he grows up. I'd bet that all the girls are going to be throwing themselves at him.

Even his little coughs are cute! Oh, he's coughing again. I've never heard a baby so young cough before, so it's all new for me.

_Esme Anne Platt Evenson_

August 22, 1921

How odd — Carlisle is coughing a lot, it seems. I think I'll take him back to the doctor for a check up. It's probably nothing.

You know, I'm in such a good mood, I think I'll buy some tea bags. And if the weather tomorrow permits, I might just take a walk to the cliffs with Carlisle.

Just baby Carlisle and I, forever!

_Esme Anne Platt Evenson, aka Mama_


	3. Edward

Disclaimer: Only a fan.

_Musings_

Edward

**August 18, 1918**

Dear Chester,

I'm sorry that it's been so long since my last letter, but my mother has been a little… anxious since the announcement about the draft. I'm sure Aunt Lydia gave you a talk about it, too.

Life in Chicago gets a little tedious after a while. Well, as tedious as metropolis life can be. Father is a lawyer, so I never see him in the daylight hours. He's up before dawn and back after dark. I say he secretly divorced mother and married his firm.

I can't complain too much, though; we live in a large house and even have an automobile. Yes, that's right: an automobile! One of these days mother says I can take it out of the city and drive it on the country roads—I'm going to try to get it all the way up to forty miles per hour. When I told that to my mother, I could sort of sense that she thought that I'd never live to see my next birthday. Her lips got smaller and whiter; that's always a sure sign of hyper-worrying on her part. Note to self: stop telling mother plans.

I hope you get this letter soon and reply. I need something new to read.

Your cousin,

_Edward Anthony Masen_

**August 20, 1918**

Dear Chester,

I'm sorry for writing again without a reply, but there's honestly nothing to do here. See, I went down to the lake with some of my friends (all two of them—the rest are in Europe), and we started fishing and swimming and stuff. It was a lot of fun. Then, of course, some stuffed-shirt officer walks over to us and begins to lecture us on what she should be doing to help the war effort.

I am not even kidding.

But before this man gets to the part about what the German hordes did to Belgium, Arthur looks up in this way and says, "Why the hell are you here harassing boys that are too young to fight instead of fighting yourself?" I could almost feel the suppressed amusement coming from Oliver, who was standing by. Myself, I wasn't all that amused as this man could have really started trouble for us—there was this paper thing that we all signed at the end of school pledging our summer time to the war effort. I guess we had all sort of suppressed that memory. After all, this might be our last summer alive. Who would want to spend it trying to get other guys our age to enlist?

Anyway, since this officer was obviously annoyed, I grabbed Ollie and Arthur and said a hasty goodbye to the officer. There goes any more days at the lake for the foreseeable future.

Arthur suggested that we "borrow" some of my father's Cuban cigars, but I just wanted to go home and rest. I think I need to find some new friends.

**August 22, 1918**

Dear Chester,

Haven't you gotten my letter? You only live the next town over.

Well, things just got really serious. I am being stalked. I'm not kidding in the least—this one girl in my grade is following me, and to make matters worse, her friends are helping her.

Creepy.

Her name is Virginia, and she goes to my school. She's always been infatuated with me, but only recently has she actually done anything on this level. Yesterday while I was in the garden polishing some of my father's tools, Virginia appeared out of nowhere over our fence and started smiling in this really weird way.

"Hello, Edward!"

I looked up and, with great difficulty, suppressed a groan. "Hi, Virginia."

"Oh please, call me Ginny." She giggled in this annoying way that girls do whenever something is really really REALLY not funny. I grunted.

"Sooo… what are you doing?"

I considered for a moment just telling her that I was aiming for her head, but that would have been rude, so I just told her the truth: polishing tools.

Then she asked me if I wanted to go get an ice cream at this place downtown. Like on a social boy/girl thing. No.

"Virginia, I'm really busy. I'll see you next month in school, okay?"

And then she started pouting, so I grabbed my tools, tipped my cap, and went inside. Sheesh.

I had to stay inside all day to avoid her, so that's why I have a 6-page Nocturne of Chicago inside my musical composition. I get bored easily.

And when I realized that I was running out of blank pages, I went to the store that sold them, keenly aware that Virginia and her whole pack of girls were following me the whole time. DOESN'T SHE KNOW THAT BEING FOLLOWED BY OBSESSIVE LOVE-SICK PSYCHOPATHS IS MORE THAN JUST A LITTLE BIT UNCOMFORTABLE!

This morning when I woke up, I found a letter on my bedside table. SHE SNUCK INTO MY ROOM, DAMN IT. I've pasted it in this letter so you can read the heinousness:

_Dear Edward Darling,_

_I love you so much; I will die if I can't be with you. You have captivated my heart and mind. Every moment I'm not with you is more than I can bear. Please think of me fondly. _

_Love,_

_Virginia_

…

What would you do? I considered alerting the authorities, but that seemed really extreme. Write back quickly, because I'm not coming out of this closet until I have some decent Virginia-repellent. Or at least a shotgun.

Your cousin,

_Edward Anthony Masen_

**August 24, 1918**

Dear Chester,

Why the hell haven't you written back!

Mother was fretting about me like something insane today. The gardener found the rose arbor beneath my window—broken and with cloth all over it. It seems like little ole' Ginny had quite a time climbing up to my window that night.

Mother thought that I had tried to climb out, but I convinced her that if wanted to go anywhere that bad, I'd simply run out the door like anyone with sense.

On a better note: I'm going to the country tomorrow in the automobile, and Arthur is coming with me!

Your cousin,

_Edward Anthony Masen_

**August 26, 1918**

Dear Chester,

Are you mad at me? I thought I apologized for that incident and your sister's wedding. I just wish you'd write back—you're my only relative with a brain.

Driving was, to use some modern slang, COOL. When I got on that open road, it was just me, my breezer (more new slang), and my annoying passenger yelping about how fast I was going.

If only cars came in red. Or silver. Ooh—red AND silver!

The only bad part was when we had to turn around and go home because Arthur wouldn't stop coughing from the dust. Honestly, he sounded like he was hacking up a hairball.

We brought him to the town hospital, because he just got worse.

I hope he's okay, because twit that he is, he's my best friend.

Your cousin,

_Edward Anthony Masen_

**August 28, 1918**

I'm not even going to bother asking you why you haven't written back.

Arthur died this morning of the Spanish Influenza.

He was seventeen.

Your cousin,

_Edward Anthony Masen_

**August 30, 1918**

Dear Chester,

I was getting dressed for my best friend's funeral this morning when the telephone rang. It was father's law firm. He was taken to the hospital because he couldn't stop coughing and gasping.

Mother and I rushed to the hospital, of course, and there he was on a hospital bed. Surrounded by dozens more of the dying. The doctor told us that the influenza is everywhere in the world, spread by the Germans. It strikes the young and healthy and kills them in 72 hours.

How could I have not known about this?

How?

Your cousin,

_Edward Anthony Masen_

**September 1, 1918**

Dear Chester,

I'm writing this letter with great difficulty, as I can't breathe right. Every time I take a breath, I have to stop so that my mother won't hear me and take me to that ward. This can't go on much longer—she's sick herself. I hear our maid packing her clothes for the hospital. I have time only to write this letter.

I was thinking, Chester, about this epidemic. How it strikes the young and healthy. How it's everywhere in the world. I was also thinking about how I haven't heard from anyone in your part of the state. These thoughts leave me with only one question, and then I promise I'll stop writing letters to you:

You're dead, aren't you?

Your cousin,

_Edward Anthony Masen_


	4. Alice

Disclaimer: So not mine.

Author's Note: This chapter changes from a doctor's logbook to Alice's writings. Just so you know.

_Musings_

Alice

**October 27, 1920**

Mary seems to be doing much better. I examined her today, and she claims to have had no "visions". I postponed her next treatment so I could observe her further. Until then, I've decided to give her a small notebook to express herself in. Other mental doctors say that notebooks have made amazing progress in their more stable patients.

_Dr. Thomas Hull_

**First Writing**

Mary. Mary. Mary Alice. Mary Alice Brandon. Alice Mary Brandon. Brandon Alice Mary. No matter how I write it, it's still my name.

Mine. My own.

It's been so long since I've held a pen that I had to practice my letters for an hour before I started to write again. I couldn't remember how to write a "D". I remember now. Dr. Thomas told me. I don't like Dr. Thomas. He brings me to the shock machine and won't stop hurting me, even when I scream for him to stop…

_A man in white is reading a book. He is talking into a machine. Mary Alice is scheduled for more treatment._

That's why I don't like Dr. Thomas. He will read what I have just written and shock me. He said he wouldn't read my book.

_Mary Alice Brandon_

**Second Writing**

I hid this book when Dr. Thomas came in. He isn't allowed to search my clothes. When the nurse came in, I bit her on the hand. They left me alone after that. It's just a book.

My name is Mary Alice and I am not insane. I am not insane.

But mother called the men with the wagon and they took me away. I had told her that the boys from the next farm over were going to shoot our dogs for fun. She asked how I knew and I told her that I had seen it in a vision. That was the last time I ever saw my mother. She was tired of my visions. I was fifteen 15 fifteen 15. I need to work on my numbers.

My spelling is good, though.

I hate my mother.

_A man is hugging me. He wears dark glasses. He calls me sweetheart and asks me how I'm feeling. I am happy._

We're going to go see Dr. Patrick!

_Mary Alice Brandon_

**October 29, 1920**

Mary seems to be doing much better. I tried to take her book from her to see what she had written, in an attempt to better understand her condition, but she resisted both the tries of the nurse and me. I'll let her have it, then. She huddles over the little book as if her life depended on it.

The other doctors didn't say anything about their patients developing manic bonds with the journals. I must consult my books about this.

Actually, I'm taking Mary to see Dr. Patrick tomorrow. She relates everything to him, so maybe I could get an actual confession of her "visions" that way.

_Dr. Thomas Hull_

**Third Writing**

Dr. Patrick is letting me write in this journal while he talks to the nurses. He asked me what I liked to write about, so I told him that I was writing about him. He stood up and hugged me, carefully like always, and then said "I have to go talk to the nurses sweetheart. Why don't you write in your journal?"

I hear voices outside. Dr. Patrick is angry with Dr. Thomas. Dr. Thomas is asking him to be quieter. Dr. Patrick is yelling that I am only getting worse and that I'm thin as a rail and aren't they feeding me?

_I am fighting the restraints. The nurses put wood in my mouth. I am crying. Heat flows through me. All is white. Stop please stop my mouth is dry why won't they stop?_

Oh God. I just wrote that. I'm not insane.

My name is Mary Alice Brandon and I am not insane.

_Mary Alice Brandon_

**October 30, 1920**

Mary was unusually passive when we arrived at her cell. Normally she huddles in the corner when the small army of technicians arrives to escort her, but today she was waiting by the door with a blank expression. I didn't tell her that I was going to treat her again, but she looked up at me and squinted.

"I don't like being shocked. It hurts me."

Well, if only she knew how much it was helping, then maybe she'd think twice!

I told her that by administering shocks, we were curing the hallucinations that plagued her.

We strapped her in and put the wedge of wood in her mouth, and I could have sworn that I heard her utter, "Don't scream."

We brought her back to her cell, where she instantly fell into her little journal. I may have to take it away from her. She's becoming more obsessive than I thought.

_Dr. Thomas Hull_

**Fourth Writing**

E.E.E.E.E. A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z.

I do remember my alphabet! I thought I had forgotten it. I can't remember how to write a seven, though. 1 2 4 3 5 6… 8?

No. That's not right. I can never remember the details after shocks. My memory is steadily fading. I can't remember my mother's name or what she looks like. I don't remember my hometown. Or my age. I think I'm 19.

I do remember my name: Alice Brandon.

I hear voices outside my cell.

* * *

I am frightened. More so than ever.

Dr. Patrick introduced me to a friend. Dr. Patrick came by to check on me, and a man was standing with him. Dr. Patrick was telling him how he lives "as one of them, with a job like one of them." His eyes were black and… strange. He was looking at me… wildly. I was scared. Dr. Patrick looked at him and said, "No, James. She is mine." His hand was on James' shoulder and very firm.

James. The man with dark eyes is called James. I can not forget this.

James looked from me to him and nodded slowly and then said goodbye to us. I had a vision.

_I was bleeding. Blood was on the floor the walls my clothes. I couldn't move. Red eyes looked down on me before they attacked._

What?

I will tell Dr. Patrick.

_Alice Brandon_

**Fifth Writing**

We are in the woods now. It is nighttime, so I can't see the sun. I don't remember what the sun looks like.

Dr. Patrick was angry when I told him what I had seen. He grabbed me in one arm and started to run. I was flying, I think. I still had my book with me, and a lead pencil.

Dr. Patrick said he would be back in a few minutes. He said he had to hunt so he wouldn't be thirsty "then". I don't know what this means. I don't know what any of this means. Why am I here? Why did he take me away?

My name is Alice Brandon and I am not insane.

_James is standing in the woods, looking at Dr. Patrick. He is angry. He demands why he took away his challenge. Dr. Patrick crouches and growls. He says that James can't have everything he wants. James lunges at him._

Dr. Patrick is back. He asked me to finish my entry, because he needs to tell me something.

I'm finished.

My name is Alice Brandon and I am not insane.

_Alice Brandon_


	5. Emmett

Disclaimer: Must we argue about something so trivial, friend?

Author's Note: Thank you all for such wonderful reviews! I cherish each and every one of them. :-D Did you know that the name Cullen means "Handsome"? How very fitting. By the way, this entire chapter was dreamed up while a dentist was clipping away at my gums. So if it's a little weird in some parts, that's the Novocain typing.

Second Author's Note: Someone pointed out a part of my original chapter that was way too close to a published story, I've edited it. Thank you—you know who you are!

_Musings_

Emmett

**September 10, 1935**

Um, I think that's the date. I'm not sure. Actually, it could be mid May for all I know, but I like the sound of the word "September".

If anyone finds out that I'm keeping this journal, I will _die_ of humiliation. I can hear it now: "Emmett is keeping a journal! Why don't you try on a dress, Emmett! No, why don't we just call you Emma!"

Or Emily. Or, even worse, Emerald.

Good God.

So I am writing this entry three miles from home, in the woods, in a tree.

And I'm not even sure if that is enough.

_Emmett McCarty_

P.S. At least I can write. My younger brothers never even bothered going to school, dumb gits.

**September 11, 1935**

I am twenty years old, but pa doesn't think that twenty makes me a man. When I asked him if I could go on his bear trip later this month, he just shook his head all sad-like and said no. Because I haven't "proved myself a man".

What does he want me to do? Rescue a baby from a burning building?

Wait…

Nah. Too many things could go wrong. Besides, all the babies I know are kin. Not a good idea.

_Emmett McCarty_

**September 12, 1935**

I'm on the roof of the schoolhouse right now. Now, I'm past school, but Miss Daisy is paying me two cents to fix the smoke pipe. She doesn't know that I did that already, in about ten minutes. I'm up here learning words.

Pustule: A small inflamed elevation of the skin that is filled with pus. Otherwise known as my brother Cillian.

Example: Cillian, you are a flaming pustule that spews…

Repugnant: Arousing disgust or aversion.

…repugnant verbal missiles.

See why I love school so much!

But I have to admit, working at home and in town instead of studying has really improved my strength. I caught my reflection in a window yesterday, and I look like an ox. All the pretty young ladies were giggling.

Okay, so here's what I came up with for the proving-myself-a-man thing: I wait for the next time we run out of food (that won't be too long—we're in a depression), and I run out of the house with my gun and come back with a feast.

I just have to beat my brothers and my dad.

_Emmett McCarty_

**September 14, 1935**

I can't believe it. Docia is getting married to that imbecile of a boy Fergus. Fergus! Docia is my sister, so I chaperoned one of her dates with Fergus while they went on a walk once. I thought that maybe I had scared that idiot away (I flexed my muscles a lot), but no, Fergus got down on bended knee today and told Docia that he wouldn't be able to live without her.

I had half a mind to march right outside and tell him that he wouldn't be able to live with her if I had anything to say about it, but pa put his hand on my shoulder and reminded me that it was Docia's choice, not mine.

I hate Fergus. He's this skinny red-haired(I hate guys with red hair), bespeckled, mumbling, stuttering… nitwit. Docia deserves better. She's only sixteen!

I know it's weird for me to be so upset about this, but Docia is more than just a sister to me. She's my best friend. She's tall and blonde, and very pretty. If she weren't my sister, I'd probably come calling. As it is, all the local boys have been throwing themselves at her since she was ten. I've had to pretty much be at her side day in and day out just so she can walk into town.

They're getting married in Pigeon Forge, a couple miles away.

Maybe I can prove myself a man by not killing Fergus.

_Emmett McCarty_

**September 15, 1935**

You know what I hate more than anything (except squash)? Chores. I get up every morning long before dawn and light the fires. Then I feed the animals, of which there are many. Then I usually have to calm down our milk cow, because Beth almost always pulls on the udders too hard. I need to talk to ma about maybe letting Laura do that.

Then I bring water in, set the table with Donald, brush and saddle the horses, chase the rats out of the haymow, and then polish the family shoes. Isn't half of that girl's work?

Oh yes. Then we all eat breakfast: Salt pork. With some salt pork on the side. Followed by salt pork.

That president man in Washington had better get on the ball about this depression, because I have salt pork coming out of my ears. We hunt and hunt and hunt, but why do we always eat pork?

I'm in the haymow right now, and it's really nice up here. Our cat Doyle is up here too, taking care of her kittens. Yes, our she-cat is named Doyle. I thought that she was a tomcat when we found her in the barn nestled with the piglets.

We're going hunting today. Don and I hope to find some deer.

* * *

Don bet me a hat that I couldn't shoot more deer than him. Ha! I got six, he got two. Nobody beats Emmett the Executioner.

I made that up, by the way. Catchy, huh?

I have to find Don now. He owes me a cap.

_Emmett McCarty_

**September 16, 1935**

I'm in the haymow again, but this time I'm hiding. Let me explain.

I was in town looking at the general store's new shipment of hunting rifles when I realized that I had forgotten the hides to trade with. I ran back to the cabin and grabbed some coon's and a rabbit's and headed out.

When I was outside, I heard this noise. It was kind of like someone sighing and trying to hide it. Then I heard something very familiar: a girl giggling.

I stalked over to the barn and wrenched open the doors (not a mean feat)… and there was Fergus and Docia, in a haystack and shirtless.

To make a long story short, Docia had to start pounding on me and crying before I let Fergus run off with his life.

I don't know what came over me, I really don't. I just sort of… cracked when I saw Fergus with my sister. Maybe it was because of the fact that the one girl I really care about was leaving to live with such an undeserving idiot who was clearly taking advantage of her.

Docia told pa, of course, that I had tried to kill Fergus. Pa told me that I had a long way to go before I was a man. I tried to mention that they were this close to coupling right there in the haystack, but pa told me that the punishment should fit the crime, and that since they're getting married this month, it wasn't that bad.

I think I understand now how I was born only seven months after ma and pa's wedding.

_Emmett McCarty_

**September 17, 1935**

They're getting married on the twentieth.

_Emmett McCarty_

**September 18, 1935**

Oh my God. I have it. I know how to fix this mess I'm in, reconcile myself with Fergus/pa/Docia, and prove myself a man all in one go.

I'll provide the meat for the wedding! If I can bring home a bear, which is more than enough for a wedding (bears are huge), I think that just maybe Docia will talk to me again and everyone will see that I'm not just some walking strongman, and that I have a conscience and a brain.

I'll hunt tomorrow.

**September 19, 1935**

Okay, I'm in a tree again. Except that I have no idea where I am. I've wandered way too far into the Smokey Mountains. And you know what bites the most?

I've been out here for six hours, and there are no bears. How am I going to explain this to everyone?

I guess I'll just retrace my steps and go back home now.

Wait—oh my God I hear something. Yes, yes, that sounds like--- sweet mother of Jesus! It's a bear!

I have to put this down now. Hunting time.

_Emmett McCarty_


	6. Rosalie

Disclaimer: This chapter proves just how out of the loop I am when it comes to the _Twilight_ Universe.

Author's Note: This is Rosalie's chapter—and no one (except the radiant Mrs. Meyer) knows Rosalie's full story. So I am making it up. From scratch. Now, this is going to be a little more difficult because I can't just cut it off at a point where everyone knows what's going to happen, because no one does. Bear with me, please?

Second Author's Note: A huge apology goes out to all my readers: I made Emmett the oldest of his siblings, but he's supposed to be the youngest. facepalm headesk

_Musings_

Rosalie

**April 10, 1933**

Dear Anya,

Happy birthday to me! Yes, I have named you, my diary, Anya. I like that name. It's foreign and exotic, yet homey and kind at the same time. Just like me, I like to suppose.

Mama gave me this beautiful light blue book this morning when I came down for breakfast. It's a lovely birthday present. She handed it to me and said, "For recording your first year as a woman, Rosalie."

Alright, then. It's very nice that mama and papa could afford to get me a present. Our family wasn't hit very hard when the stock market fell four years ago. Not as hard as other families in Rochester, I mean. Susannah's family had to sell practically everything.

I can't imagine that. Well, it's time to go to school. But before I go:

I, Rosalie Lillian Hale, do solemnly swear to write in this book faithfully every day until death takes me. Even if it's writing to say that there's nothing to write about.

Not too bad, eh?

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 11, 1933**

Dear Anya,

Being in the top grade at school really has its benefits. People pay attention when I talk, I am taller than all of the little midgets, and the boys are cuter.

And how!

But seriously, Anya, there's this new boy at school. His name is Edward Cullen. He is the most handsome person I've ever met,

His hair is this amazing red/brown, and he's so tall! Taller than I, the giant. He had to sit in the back with the others in our grade, and he kept looking at his pocket watch in class. So he has money, too.

Edward also kept edging away from me, but to be honest, I haven't had a bath in few days because I hate getting water from the well. That's a job for my little brothers, Benjamin and Timothy.

Papa told me that there's a new doctor in town by the name of Carlisle Cullen. Apparently, Edward is Mrs. Cullen's younger brother. I can believe it, as this doctor is supposed to be about 28. His wife must be around that age, too.

Anyway, I think that once we get past the smell incident, Edward and I could become really good friends. Why do I say "friends"? Well, face it. I'm beautiful and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I've seen boys and I have seen boys, and I know when they're into me and when they're not. Edward didn't really seem… interested, and I refuse to be a boy-chaser.

And I'm okay with this. I think.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 12, 1933**

Dear Anya,

He's smart too! Edward recited his poem from our reader perfectly, and answered all of the questions that Mr. Sizemore asked without even blinking!

I am impressed.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 13, 1933**

Dear Anya,

Friday the 13th isn't so bad.

Today during recess, Edward talked to me for the first real time. I was helping the younger girls get water from the well behind the school building. The crank is really rusty, and I was having trouble lifting the heavy bucket from twenty feet down. Suddenly, these pale arms appeared (the little girls gasped) and started cranking like the whole apparatus weighed nothing. I looked up to see Edward half-smiling. He looked down at me. "You seemed to have been having trouble." And then he gave the dipper to the little girls, who were far more flustered than I was. I thanked him and started to leave, but he stopped me with a few simple words.

"I heard that Mr. Sizemore is going to call a surprise reciting of "The Steady Ironworker", so you may want to study some extra before class."

Being the buffoon that I am, I said the first thing that came into my mind. "How do you know that?"

He shrugged and smiled. "People were talking about it in class."

So… the cryptic yet handsome stranger strikes again. I wondered if he was flirting with me, but shook it off. He seemed totally aloof. "Thank you, Edward. I'll do that."

Just like he said, Mr. Sizemore called us up and told us to recite that blasted poem. That was lousy.

On the other hand, we whispered during class and had a great time trying to best each other with jokes and little witticisms.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 14, 1933**

Dear Anya,

Saturdays are always so much fun! Papa owns an automobile that he likes to work on Saturdays, and he lets me help him. I wore my nastiest dress, the one with grease and oil all over it. I look like Cinderella in it or so say my brothers. They can tease so much sometimes.

I was working on the upholstery when I heard voices in the distance. I looked out from under the patio roof (it rains every day in April around here), and what do I see? Why, the Cullens on a stroll in the downpour, of course.

I waved lightly, ashamed of my dirty appearance and rather masculine activities. Edward grinned and said something to the doctor and his sister. To my utter horror, they walked over. The doctor spoke first.

"You must be Rosalie. We've heard a lot about you from Edward."

I glared at the boy that I had only recently begun to know. Helooked awayinnocently. Mrs. Cullen smiled kindly.

"It's nice to know that Edward is making friends, Rosalie. We all greatly appreciate everything you're doing."

I muttered something about it being nothing at all and explained that I was really in a bad way to be entertaining visitors. But, instead of leaving, Edward ran over to papa's car and began to tinker under the hood.

"You like cars, Rosalie?" Mrs. Cullen noticed. I sighed.

"Not as much as Edward," I said loudly. Edward laughed and stood up.

"It's a nice car. I'll be back to take a look at it later, is that all right?" He asked smoothly. I knew instantly that he was trying to charm his way to my family's automobile. Typical adolescent male.

The other Cullens stared at him for a moment, clearly dumbfounded, but shook it off. They looked at me expectantly.

"Sure."

So now Edward is coming over tomorrow after lunch to help me with the auto. My head is spinning withit all. An extremely handsome boy wants to spend time with me, but not in the usual way. I think he's handsome, but there's a wall somewhere. I just don't feel…it... with him. Do you understand, Anya?

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 15, 1933**

Dear Anya,

I. Hate. Rain.

I do like working on autos with quirky boys that are more interested in an engine than in cleavage while listening to the rain, however.

Edward and I had a lot of fun today. He came over after lunch, even going as far as bringing us a cherry pie that his sister, Esme, made. My mother was charmed, and papa seemed to be pleased that a doctor's brother-in-law was paying attention to me.

But I SWEAR, it's not like that! We just talked about normal stuff, like the depression and places we've seen and how dumb Mr. Sizemore is. Edward is really nice, too. He complemented my hair and noted how statuesque I was in my dress, too. Normally I'd blush, but I just laughed and told him to knock it off.

Knock it off. That what I tell my brother's when they chase the dogs around the yard. No, Anya, there's an inescapable wall between Edward and I. That's a shame, too—we seem to be on the same level somewhere.

When I finally got brave and asked why he was so interested in spending time with me (I don't believe in beating around the bush), he looked me straight in the eye (his eyes are this amazing yellow—wow) and told me that he liked my company. I detected no deception in his words. He likes my company, simple as that.

So I looked him straight back in the eye and asked, "So, I guess we're friends then. Just friends, right?"

He nodded once and that closed it. We went back to talking about our current subject—segregation in the south—and worked until the sun went down.

**April 16, 1933**

Dear Anya,

Something really weird happened today. One of the little six-year-old boys was running around during recess and tripped. He scraped his elbow and cut it a little. I needed a bandage and called for Edward to go get one, but another student told me that Edward had suddenly taken off running.

Huh.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 17, 1933**

Dear Anya

Not much to write about. Edward wasn't at school, and all the other girls at school were mocking me about being "swoony" for him. Yeah, right. If only they knew. And I think I'm coming down with something.

On the other hand, it was sunny today, for once.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 18, 1933**

Dear Anya,

Raining again and I have a cold. Benjamin and Timothy came into my room toting what looked like a large rocket. Apparently they won it in a bet from one of their friends. After quick interrogation, I found out that it was a firework.

Boys.

They say that they'll set it off as soon as God stops crying so much. I may have to talk to them about that.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 19, 1933**

Dear Anya,

I went back to school today, though I'm not really feeling my best. Edward said that he missed intelligent life. I snorted (oops) and said the feeling was mutual.

We talked about whether the new Chancellor of Germany, Adolf Hitler, has ulterior motives. He thinks so. I think not. We'll have to wait and see, I guess.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 20, 1933**

Dear Anya,

I'm home again from school. My chest hurts and I have a fever. Mama thinks I have a bad cold, but I really do feel seriously ill. I can't get warm.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 21, 1933**

Dear Anya,

Can't stop shaking, and I'm coughing up this sort of----

---ew. It's all over the page. It's some kind of pus. It's hard to breathe. I don't think it's a cold. I shouldn't be writing, but I swore to you that I would, right?

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 22, 1933**

Dear Anya,

Papa looked in his big red book of sicknesses and announced that I have pneumonia. He's fetching Dr. Cullen.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**April 23, 1933**

Dear Anya,

How can one sickness become another so abruptly? I can hardly breathe, yet alone hold this pen, but I have to write this down: I think I'm doing really badly. No one is admitting it, though. Papa and mama just hold each other, and Dr. Cullen just sits in his chair and takes notes and asks me questions. He's talking to mama and papa right now.

--- I have to stop writing.

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

**Later That Day**

Dr. Cullen was talking to Esme outside my window, in the rain, but I couldn't hear what they were saying.

He came in and told mama and papa that my condition will only make me waste away, and that he'd have to take me to his practice for observation. He said I'd be gone for three days.

They're packing my things right now.

--- I just coughed all over my page again. I'm sorry, Anya. But don't worry, I may have a fever and maybe I'm coughing up pus, but I'm very clear-minded. Clear-minded enough, in fact, to wonder about something: Why does Dr. Cullen want me for exactly three days?

_Rosalie Lillian Hale_

* * *

If anyone doesn't understand what went on between the characters in the chapter, send me a message and I'll explain. Otherwise, I hope you liked it! 


	7. Carlisle

Disclaimer:

Lawyers, lawyers, go away

Come again another day

I don't own Twilight anyway

Lawyers, lawyers go away

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the supportive and constructive reviews! I love them all and drive my family up the wall with my constant checking of email. By the way, there are some answers to questions I've been asked after the chapter.

Second Author's Note: This is Carlisle's chapter. As you all know, people spoke and wrote quite differently in the 1660s. In a way that I can't duplicate, in fact. I'm going to write this in a slightly more modern way, but I hope that the impact doesn't fade.

_Musings_

Carlisle

**Tuesday, 1663**

I fear for my father's health. I really do. This morning, right after breakfast, he gave me a talk on his favorite subject: The Eliminations. His eyes… burned with a sort of feverish excitement that I can only describe as martyrish. And my father truly thinks that he'll is a martyr for his own personal cause—the elimination of all he sees as evil. Werewolves, witches, vampires, it doesn't matter.

Like I said, he cornered while I was on my way to study scripture. "Carlisle," he began. He put a hand on my shoulder and I felt like a youth of 13 again. "I need you tonight."

I felt my hopes for a simple request to work at the church go up in smoke. "What for?" I asked dully.

"We are raiding a coven of witches, and we need manpower. These witches have the power of Satan behind them..."

"So you'll need men of God." I finished. I'd heard this before.

So after vespers, father, some men from the parish, and I are going to raid a house full of witches, drag them off to prison, and then burn them at the stake. Or something similarly horrifying.

You see, father's methods of elimination are… brutal. His idea of retribution is swift and absolute, and I can't help wonder if his ways are the wrong way. By no means do I wish to break the fourth commandment by writing this and dishonor my father, but I believe that his ways are wrong and that indeed, he has put innocent people to death.

I hear the bell for vespers. I will write again.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Wednesday, 1663**

Six young women holding a gathering. That's what we found last night when father broke down the door in the slums. Father called them witches, demons, agents of the Devil. While I was searching through their papers, I found out what they really were: Sapphists.

Oh.

I tried to explain to father that they weren't witches, but rather just strange women participating in significantly weird behavior. I didn't want them to burn for a crime they didn't commit. It didn't matter; father is still taking them to the church court. I fear for their lives.

Off topic, today is the last Wednesday of the month, so we're fasting. I'm currently fantasizing about chicken.

_Carlisle Cullen _

**Friday, 1663**

Father finally finished that large cross that will hang above the pulpit in his vicarage. It's about time; he's been working on the thing every night for a year.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Saturday, 1663**

The night before the Sabbath. It doesn't matter if the Sabbath starts tomorrow—we start our piety today. We cook tomorrow's food tonight. And so on and so forth. I won't be able to write on Sundays, unless it's in someway religious.

Actually, I shouldn't be writing now. I told father that I'd be outlining tomorrow's sermon. This is quite nice, actually; I'll be able to choose the subject of discussion. Perhaps a Psalm…

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Monday, 1663**

Oh, how I hate going on raids. This morning we stormed into a house of vampires armed with crucifixes and stakes. Vampires! I kid you not. Now, I believe in vampires, but I do not believe that this family of four had anything to do with incubi or succubae. The youngest was ten years old and sucked her thumb, all the while clutching a little doll.

Unlike last time, though, I managed to convince father that the Dragomirs were not vampires with a few simple waves of my crucifix and some chanting of key passages from scripture. Father left the house with his fellows, leaving me to explain what was going on. The Dragomirs were understandably upset.

It seems that the Dragomirs are Romanian, only recently moved here from Romania. Their children are familiar with the legends of vampires and told them to local children, and it started to spread. But, as stories tend to do, the legend somehow twisted and mutated until the Dragomirs were believed to be the vampires. So it was all a silly misunderstanding!

I do wonder, though, if there are any true vampires in this city. If there were, they'd hide until nightfall. In inns, maybe? Or sewers, more likely. And can they really be warded off by garlic and crucifixes? Whatever they are, they're blood drinkers. And that is the true sign of something diabolical.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Tuesday, 1663**

An interesting turn of events has taken place. I just came from father's office. He called me in there an hour ago and basically gave me two options: Either take a wife or become serious about the raiding party.

I decided to hedge and ask why this was suddenly so important.

"Carlisle," he began. I knew that I was in for another long discussion. "You're a grown man now. You need to study your life. What do you want to do?"

I want to study medicine and heal people of the afflictions that so plague this earth. I want to be a light in the dark. I want to change someone's life.

"I want to study theology and rid the world of evil, father." I am so low.

It worked. He was suddenly so happy that we literally bounced out of his chair and pulled me into his Goliathinian embrace.

"Son, I'm glad you want this, because as of now you are the head of the 16th parish raiding party."

This can't be happening. This can not be happening. Me, the leader?

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Wednesday, 1663**

Further explanations of events—my candle was falling low on wax.

Apparently, father realized that he was too senile for the job of leader. He looked at all the people who could succeed him, and realized the best person for the position was his son. He had been noticing how I always saw the errors in his judgment, and how I always knew where to find the evil ones, and how I showed compassion for "those who deserve it."

And here I was thinking that everything I said went in one ear and out the other with him.

About the compassion comment: But isn't compassion mercy for those who don't deserve it? Or at least a wish to relieve the suffering of others?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really his son.

I can see only one positive part of my decision: If I control the raids, maybe only the true evildoers will be punished.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Thursday, 1663**

I heard an interesting rhyme today while I was walking home from the market. Some street children were singing it.

_Remember, remember the fifth of November_

_The gunpowder treason and plot_

_I know of no reason why gunpowder treason_

_Should ever be forgot._

I know that the rhyme is much longer, but I can't remember it. It's been a long time since I've sung little songs like that.

By the way, I was at the market not for goods, but for information. I decided to tackle this raid issue head on and went to the market place to ask around about suspicious people. Here's what I have:

Three-armed man in the north side

A woman with six cats in central

A Moorish street man near St. Paul's

Multiple reports of witchcraft

Only one report seemed remotely plausible: Seven children reported missing last month. Where? The old theater district.

Looks like I'm going to need to get a ferry boat.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Friday, 1663**

I asked around for the missing children, but no one seemed to know what I was talking about. One woman even spit on me and crossed herself.

…was that really necessary, ma'am?

I walked into a tavern called The Battered Fish (ha-ha) and ordered ale. People stared at me; I wondered if it was really that obvious that I was from another part of town, so to speak. And old man sidled up next to me.

"Word's been goin' 'round that some 'ot-'eaded boy is asking around 'bout the missin' lil 'uns."

I said that I was concerned, as well as possibly in the know of their whereabouts. He leaned closer.

"Mister, the best thing you can do is t' leave this place and ne'er come back lookin' for them lil 'uns."

I decided to stop beating around the bush. I asked him if he knew anything about them or what happened. He crossed himself and shook his head. I discreetly put a farthing in his hand.

"Are you sure, my good fellow?"

So now I am in the back of some old warehouse, waiting for the signal to follow him. The old man, Tom, said he knew where—

* * *

I can't believe it. I honestly can't believe it. 

I have seen vampires, really and truly. And they are NOTHING like lore.

Tom flashed his lantern at me right at end of the last entry, so I closed my book and followed him to the roof of some building. If you looked down at the side of a building, you can see this alley. In the alley is a grate to enter the sewers. We stood there looking at that grate for an immeasurable amount of time. Every time I started to talk, he slapped my arm and shushed me. "Quite, you. _Wait_."

And then there they were. Four of them, all wearing filthy rags, crawled out of the sewer. From the smoky light of the moon I could see that they were inhumanly pale. They walked with a strange cat-like gait, almost like a crouch. They spoke lowly and quickly; I didn't catch their words. Before I could look at them longer, Tom pulled me back sharply. "We've seen enough. You don't want 'em t' smell ya, got it?"

After we were sure that they were hunting, Tom spoke again. He explained how nothing wards off a vampire, and how that everyone in the immediate area was scared witless of them. They drank blood and only came out at night, but they were believed to be able to walk in the day. Interesting. They had killed the children. No one could prove it, but everyone knew it.

"How can you kill them?" I asked finally. Tom shook his head mournfully.

"Nobody knows, C'lisle."

We waited until they came back, undoubtedly filled the blood of innocent people. I felt anger that I've never felt before burn in my chest. After the grate clacked shut, I turned to Tom. "I swear on St. Paul that by this time next week you'll never have to fear vampires again in this city."

Now, if only I could live up to that promise.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Saturday, 1663**

I called a meeting of the raiding party today and told them what I've witnessed. They were all impressed and shocked. After a lot of yelling and swearing of vengeance on their part, I finally managed to quiet them. "Men," I started. "We need to approach this logically and methodically. We need to compare what we know about vampires. Clearly, they aren't human, but rather something from hell. They have power behind them that we don't full understand." A man named Peter stood up.

"You said that this Tom said that nothing wards them off. How are we supposed to fight them, then?" I smiled appreciatively at his comment, as it was just the opener I needed for my plan that I'd been formulating all night.

"I propose that we set up a trap," I began. "After all, there's nothing in this world that gunpowder can not destroy, as multiple wars have proved. Even Guy Fawkes himself knew that."

The men chuckled darkly at that and all nodded.

"So you're saying that we lure 'em out and blow 'em sky high?" Interjected another man by the name of Richard. I nodded.

"Exactly."

So now all we have to do is find 20-odd kegs of gunpowder, manage to them into the heart of the slums without incident, and lure a coven of vampires out.

Then we kill them.

God help me. God help us all.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Monday, 1663**

Back to business after a long Sabbath. Trust me; I spent a good amount of it praying.

Harold Goodling explained to his brother why the 16th parish needs half his stock of powder, but Franklin Goodling is a decent man, so he happily gave them to us, free of charge.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Tuesday, 1663**

…And one by one the silly little vampire-chasing men smuggled barrels of black powder across the river.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Wednesday, 1663**

We set up the powder in the day and left a dead, bloody dog at the grate. Nothing happened. We need a better lure.

Tom found us and suggested human blood, their only true love.

I think I know where we can get that.

_Carlisle Cullen_

**Thursday, 1663**

It worked. I went to the Blood-letter's shop and asked him for all the blood he had let. Why he keeps it I can't imagine, but it proved useful all the same. We're going to pour it down into the grate. That should wake those vampires, if indeed they do sleep.

Father cautioned me before I left for the trap today. He asked me if I was sure what I was doing. Of course I do! He reminded me that I was still a novice.

I resisted the urge to tell him that in one week I have done what he had never done in his life: Successfully tracked down a coven of vampires and perfected a way to kill them. I just thanked him for his concern and put on my coat. I hope our relationship is not on a sour note.

I'm currently in the cellar of the building where I first watched the vampires. There's a big pile of rotting potatoes next to me that I'm supposed to be hiding in, but they are rank. My other men are positioned in strategic points in and around the alley. Richard just poured the blood.

And… the grate is opening. More later.

_Carlisle Cullen_

* * *

**Where do you get your information?**

Why, at the Twilight Lexicon, of course. :) I'm addicted to that place. But as for other historical points and facts, I just Google everything I need to know. I did that for facts on asylums and shock treatments, events of the civil war in early 1863, symptoms of pneumonia, and for general information on Spanish Influenza. I love Google. I own a visitor's guide to London that I used for this chapter.

**What was up with the Cullen brother/sister family thing in Rosalie's story?**

At the Twilight Lexicon, it says that when it was just Edward, Carlisle, and Esme, Edward pretended to be Esme's younger brother, thus making him Carlisle's brother-in-law.

And if you got this far, a promise: "Musings" is _far_ from over. ;-D


	8. James

Disclaimer: So not going through this again.

Author's Note: And here I was thinking that Rosalie's story was hard. At least I had a general idea of her life and family. But _nooooooo_, I had to go all masochistic and decided to write… James.

Yes, you read that correctly. I came up with a decent, albeit far-fetched, plot for this chapter during algebra on Monday. I mean it was either that or work problems with the FOIL method. What would _you_ have done?

Ye be warned: This is going to truly be a work of fiction. Again with the I-can't-replicate-ancient-writing-so-I'm-not-even-going-to-try thing.

_Musings_

James

**January 10, 1550**

I, James Welch, write this on my own parchment, with my own quill, in my own hand. I am a scribe; writing is what I do best. It is how I make my living. I am the resident scribe of Kingston-upon-Hull, England, and it is because of this that I know the date as well as Latin. I have a little shop with a sign out front that reads, "Welch's". Next to my name is a quill, so everyone in town who is illiterate (which is everyone in town) can see that I am a scribe.

I came upon this book today when I was cleaning out my desk. Due to the last rainstorm, many of the pages are useless for writing on, and the cover is fur and infested with fleas. I considered throwing it into the fire, but stopped myself when I realized that I could chronicle the days of this little town. Yes, they may be as dull as bathwater, but they are still my days on this earth. And I suppose it is my duty, as I am probably the only literate man in this town, save the mayor.

I would like to be the mayor.

The sun set a few hours ago and Katharine, my wife, is calling me to bed.

I just told her to give me a few more minutes.

Katharine is the one thing in my life that I am not sure about. I love her, I do, but there is nothing remotely romantic between us. Our parents arranged our marriage when we were both sixteen. We are both 34 years old now.

Only when our families asked why no children had been produced did we even start trying to produce them.

I often wonder where our union went wrong. To be brutally honest, neither of us are attracted to the other's beauty, as neither of us possess any. My face is squished and mottled, as well as pock-marked. Katharine is plump and is missing many teeth. Her hair is thin and a nondescript brown that I've only ever seen duplicated on the bark of trees in winter.

My candle is going out.

_James Welch_

**January 14, 1550**

Many days have passed since my last entry due to the violent snowstorm that befell Kingston-upon-Hull the night of my previous entry. For four days we've sat in this house, shivering and singing songs to pass the time. The snow melted a bit, but then froze over again, making it twice as perilous as before. It's finally melted enough for my one true passion—hunting. And I have a good excuse today; we need food!

_James Welch_

**January 15, 1550**

Yesterday was very successful. A few men from outside of town joined me in the pursuit of game. We followed a trail of a large herd of deer for hours until the tracks led us to them. We'll eat nicely for many nights. John Still congratulated me on following the trail so well.

_James Welch_

**January 17, 1550**

Ugh. Rot has set into the meat and it's foul to taste and smell. How can this happen in times so cold? But no matter how much I complain about it, we still need food. Our winter stores are low on all the staples and the local shops aren't doing any better. I'll go hunting as soon as the next clear day comes.

_James Welch_

**January 19, 1550**

The local physick's daughter wandered off into the snow this morning. They came to me to track her down. I followed her trail with the help of hounds and common sense, but by the time we found the little two-year old, it was too late. She had frozen to death in the chill.

God rest her soul.

_James Welch_

**January 20, 1550**

The local hermit that lives on the edge of town says that we will have clear weather tomorrow. How he knows this, I can't fathom. But it's never good to argue with a hermit; there's usually a reason they live by themselves.

In other news, the lord mayor wants me to be the school master! I'd love to be the schoolmaster!

_James Welch_

**January 21, 1550**

I'm writing this as I'm waiting for the kettle to boil. The hermit was right—the sun is shining as if it were summer.

* * *

I love tea.

* * *

I'm going to take this book with me. Hunting involves a lot of sitting around and waiting, you know.

**Later That Day**

I just ate the little lunch of bread and cheese that Katharine packed for me, washing it down with some water from the steam nearby. I'm currently sitting on a log amid reeds. It's good camouflage when you want to kill deer as they come for a drink.

I wonder, though, if I should be hunting something else. I came across no less than three dead deer on my way through the woods. Their necks had been torn open, and their positions made me think that they had been literally thrown aside. A bear, maybe? Whatever it was, it's large and very dangerous. But here's the really strange thing: whatever killed them did only that, kill them. No flesh was missing. Actually, the carnage was fairly minimal. But there were definite teeth marks.

It's getting late, so I think I'll go actively search for game.

_James Welch_

**January 22, 1550**

I am still in shock. I look around myself and see, but my eyes do not believe.

Not twenty minutes after I finished my previous entry, the air temperature dropped and the wind came up. I feared another snowstorm. Before long, snow began to fall, harder and harder; I lost my way in the maelstrom and eventually sunk down beneath a tree. How could I have been so stupid and proud to go hunting alone, without proper protection against the elements, and without marking a path back? I prepared to die, right there beneath the tree.

And then I woke up. I was lying on a bearskin rug, covered in a blanket and warm as a child in a cradle. Low voices from somewhere near lulled me in and out of sleep. Only when a woman's voice clearly said, "He's waking up," did I become fully conscious. A male voice said, "Really, Nydia, do you have to go around bringing home every human you find?"

"Nydia" laughed. "Leonardo, you know full well that I've never done such a thing before." Someone coughed pointedly and suddenly I was surrounded by three people. I hadn't seen or heard them move, but there they were. I sat up and blinked.

"Are you warm?" Nydia asked gently. The other two men sniggered, making Nydia frown at them. She bent down and looked me in the face, making me realize something. Nydia was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

I tell no lie. Her hair was a long, thick chestnut brown that almost glittered in the firelight from across the room, which I saw was actually underground. Her skin was an angelic white that I've never seen before, except for on the delicate petals of spring flowers. Her eyes were an amazing yellow that I had truly never seen before.

I just nodded, not sure how to speak. Nydia smiled, satisfied. "I'm sorry that we don't have anything to offer you in the way of food—," another snicker from the others, "—but we can offer you a shelter from the storm." I found my voice.

"Where am I?"

The man who had coughed spoke. "Underground, about half a day's journey from your town. Kingston-upon-Hull, correct?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "You can go back as soon as the snow stops." I slowly stood up and surveyed my surroundings. The strangers surveyed me… cautiously, almost.

The currently unnamed man spoke up. "Do you need anything else…" He gazed at me with question in his eyes.

"James. James Welch.," I finished for him. "And no, but thank you for asking." They all looked at each other and nodded once. The two men filed out of the room, Nydia trailing behind them. She turned to look at me before she left.

"I'll be back later. And remember, James, you're our guest. You can trust us, even if Leonardo and William are a little odd." She smiled at me and I felt my heart hammer a strange beat in my chest. "Rest now, please."

Well, I'm all rested, so I'm writing. I must be honest and say this: I have no idea what's going on.

_James Welch_

**January 23, 1550**

They're all siblings, or so they tell me. According to William it's still snowing out, so I can't go home. Nydia seemed very pleased with this, though I have no idea why. Though absolutely gorgeous in every way, she's an odd one. Whenever she comes into "my" room, she inhales deeply as if a duck was roasting over a fire. I asked her about this and she just laughed. "If my plan works, you'll know soon enough."

When I asked her what her plan was, she simply shook her head and smiled. Then she produced from within the folds of her dress a small crock. Inside was warm meat and bread. I nearly cried in gratitude and thanked her profusely.

I was so grateful that I didn't mind her watching me eat, though that was a little weird, I must admit. She seemed almost fascinating. I commented on how fresh the meat was, and she smiled toothily. "We went hunting while you slept."

A woman hunting with her brothers?

Odd. As I write this, they're hunting again. I hope Katharine and the villagers aren't too worried.

_James Welch_

**January 24, 1550**

I must admit, sitting here in this room and writing in this book is getting a little dull. Nydia visits me frequently and asks me questions about town life, my occupation, my wife (she didn't seem too happy to find out that I was married), my childhood, and more. She hangs on my every word—she literally giggled and clapped her hands when I told her that I love to hunt and track.

After I had told her all that I could possible say, she stood up from her stool that she had been sitting on. "I have to go out for a little bit. Don't worry, though. I won't go far in the storm."

I told her I wouldn't, and she half-skipped out of the room. I went back to sleep. I woke up to a cold hand on my shoulder. Nydia was shaking me awake. "It's stopped snowing! It's stopped snowing!" she kept chirping.

I'm waiting for William and Leonardo to come, so then we can leave.

_James Welch_

**January 25, 1550**

God help us all. Katharine is dead.

I came home in the sleet (at least it wasn't snow) and immediately noticed the crowd around my shop. I ran over and people looked at me in recognition and then averted their gaze. I saw that the door had been broken down. The mayor came out from inside and turned me away from my home. "James, you don't want to go inside."

"Why ever not?" I asked in honest confusion.

"James, I hate to tell you this, but… during the night… a wild animal broke into your house and… Katharine…"

Then I passed out.

When I came to, I instantly recognized the face above mine. Nydia was peering down at me. We were in the physic's shop. "I'm so sorry, James!" she said earnestly, pity in her words. I felt a swell of affection for Nydia. More than I had ever felt for Katharine.

William and Leonardo were there suddenly, helping me sit up. "You've been out for a while, James. It had to come as quite a horror," Said William. Oddly, they glanced at Nydia, who was studying her shoes.

"James," started Leonardo. "We're not going to pretend to be well-acquainted with you. We met you only three days ago. But in that short amount of time, you've come to mean a lot to Nydia—," a glance in her direction, "—and we thought that this would be a good place for you to start you life anew. Our… family… is small, and we could always use a good tracker."

The honesty in their eyes was intimidating. "Join your family?" I repeated softly. I carefully considered my options, and then realized that there were none. Mysterious strangers that lived underground in the winter (Nydia had so confided) were interested in my "joining their family". What kind of family was this that people could just join in? Maybe if I "joined", I'd find out.

It wasn't like I had any other family to go to.

"Yes, I'll go with you," I said finally. Nydia grinned, her eyes sparkling.

"Excellent!" Leonardo raised a cautioning hand to her.

"Nydia, are you certain that you can do this, or that is even for the best? You do remember last time that you tried…"

"I'm stronger now." Nydia snapped.

"Do what?" I asked, bewildered by the conversation that had popped up so suddenly.

"Oh, nothing important. Just something that we'll do to initiate you. Back at the house."

The three are now at my place packing my things. We leave in ten minutes.

_James Welch_

* * *

Please be honest. What did you think? 


	9. Rosalie II

Author's Note: Alright, guys. I admit it; there is no good excuse for leaving you all hanging for so long, and I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention at all. But I do have something to say in my defense: I have been writing and rewriting this chapter since August, but it never came out how I wanted. Last week, the answer hit me like a bolt of lightening. _Give up on the journal thing. _The journal approach wasn't working.

Anyway, this chapter is a look into Rosalie's psyche, Cullen family dynamics, and how even "unchangeable" people change over the years. The Cullen children weren't always as mature—or secure—as they are now.

This chapter of Musings is brought to you in part by sillybella and her l33t beta skillz. Thanks!

**Rosalie II**

It is no secret that I hate being a vampire.

It's true that I will always be at the zenith of my youth—perfect hair and airbrushed-looking skin is mine forever. That _is_ nice. But I will never change, physically or mentally. I will never again be able to savor real food, human food. I will never have children. I'm stuck as I was in 1933.

But I can appreciate the little graces that being immortal grants me. Humans often fail to grasp subtle concepts of life because they are not alive long enough to see the bigger picture. They cannot see the delicate changes in their own world, even as they happen before their eyes. Unwilling as I am, I cannot help but notice them.

Modern society condones the idea that girls might take interest in something traditionally considered masculine instead of condemning it – along with the girl. Schoolgirls don't have to worry about prejudice, segregation, or sexual harassment in the classroom. If they do encounter these things, the perpetrator will have a lawsuit on them so fast that they'll think they're in a time warp.

I am shrewd. I am intelligent. I am talented. For these things, I am praised.

It wasn't always that way.

**February 1964**

"…And in other news, protesting against alleged de-facto school racial segregation, Black and Puerto Rican groups in New York City have boycotted public schools. Howard Smithson reports from New York City…"

The television went off with a little _beooop _sound. Edward rolled his eyes as he went back to his easy chair and picked up whatever novel he was reading these days. I glanced over the top of my Italian textbook.

"Some of us might have been watching that, you know."

Edward didn't even look up. "You weren't."

I tried my best to look bored with the conversation already. "But the point is that you should _ask_, Mr. Cullen. It's rude to turn off a common television, especially if there are other people in the room." Edward snorted.

"So much for hating Poise class. You seem to have swallowed the textbook."

I threw him the dirtiest scowl I could muster and settled back into my Italian, but my mind was elsewhere. How _dare_ he ridicule my feelings for Poise class! I didn't mock him for his ridiculous opinions of music. Everyone in the family was greatly enjoying the new British band, The Beatles, but not Edward. Oh no, it had to be swingy and on a phonograph for the Prince of Music.

Poise class, on the other hand, was truly insufferable. Everyday, I, along with twenty other girls, had to practice introductions, "feminine" handshakes, manners, table etiquette (the irony of that was just sickening), how to speak to superiors, and everything dainty. Next week we would begin the other half of the class, Home Economics. I felt an echo of a headache—for vampires can't really have headaches—pulsing in my temple. We'd have to eat what we cooked in Home Economics. I'd considered faking an allergy, but what kind of schmuck is allergic to basically everything in the school kitchen? The very thought of eating food that would sit in my stomach like lead until I vomited it back up after class filled me with such anxiety that I put down my book and walked out of the room.

xxxXxxx

"Oh, for God's sake, turn it _off_," Edward moaned. Edward and I, along with Emmett and Alice, were in my new 'Stang and on the way to school. The radio was on and the catchy lyrics of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" chirped merrily from the speakers. Edward reached between the front seats to switch it off, but I swatted his hand away.

"If you don't like the music, you can walk to school." Not that this was hard for any of us, but the meaning was clear.

"I like these guys," Alice announced happily. "Jasper is taking me to New York City to see them on Sunday." She beamed silently in the backseat.

"They're too nasal," Edward griped.

"And those twerps from the forties were what? Bass-baritones?" I snapped. Edward had chosen the wrong day to argue with me. He picked up on that very quickly, no doubt straight from my thoughts.

"Rosalie is still upset about having to take Poise class," Edward explained matter-of-factly to the other two. In the rearview mirror I could see Alice grimace.

"Rose, you don't have to take the class," Emmett said. "Just skip." As if I hadn't already thought of that.

"Carlisle wants as little trouble as possible, especially after what happened last time…" I said. Alice looked down. The reason Jasper wasn't a member of our party was because he had lost control on a field trip at our last school. A kid had stumbled on a hike and cut himself.

End of story.

"And they won't let you take anything else? Not even Orchestra, like me?" Alice asked, breaking the heavy silence. "Why not?"

"There's not enough room in Orchestra. And I'm not allowed to take Engines Shop," I growled. I heard the steering wheel crack a little bit where my fingers were clenching it. I had to get control…

"That's not completely true," Edward said quietly. "Tell them what the guidance counselor really said, Rosalie." Was that disgust I heard in his voice?

I had hesitated telling everyone what had transpired on the first day of school, but of course Edward would have known; I had been thinking about it for six months. I pulled Edward aside during October and pleaded with him not to tell anyone what had gone on. He had kept that promise, though my constant bitching had made everyone realize I hated the class. But the whole situation was so embarrassing that I never told them _why_ I hated it so much. I took a long, shuddering breath.

"When I asked to take Engines Shop, the counselor said, 'Engines Shop isn't the place for nice girls.'" I had had to bite my tongue before I spat back that I wasn't what any normal person would call nice, but I was supposed to be playing their game. Emmett gaped at me.

"But, it's _you_! You're the best mechanic on this side of the Mississippi!" He started ticking off modifications I had done to the car. "You replaced all the vinyl with leather, and you added that blanket thing under the hood, and those breaks, and so much other stuff that I can't even think of it all!" He turned to level a glare at the other two, who hastily nodded.

"Ridiculous," Alice murmured.

"Completely stupid," Edward agreed.

I noticed we were in the school parking lot, but nobody moved to get out. I still had a death grip on the steering wheel. My eyes were narrowed so much that I could see my eyelashes. My focus found itself resting on a group of boys a dozen or so yards away, all of them interrupting each other to compliment my car. _Stupid boys_, I thought. Never mind that they hadn't done anything; I was in a spiteful mood.

"I know that, Emmett. But they don't. And when I tried to explain it, he actually laughed at me. He _laughed_ at me," I hissed.

There was dead quiet in the car.

The voices of the boys wafted inside.

"…seriously boss car."

"You see the chick drivin' it, though? You'd think the big guy ridin' shotgun would be."

"I wonder who souped it up…"

"You need to tell Carlisle. He'll set this right," Alice said firmly. I spun around in my seat.

"How, Alice? It's not one man, or one school, or one state we'd be fighting against! It's a whole system! Every educator in the country! What the hell could Carlisle possibly do? Bribe them?"

Edward snorted. Bribing was far below our father's level, at least for something like this.

I swiftly stepped out of the shiny red car, everyone following suit, sort of. Emmett and Edward hated my car for the lone fact that they both had to sit knees-to-chin to fit inside. When he had finally squirmed his way out, Emmett pulled me against his chest. "I wish you had told me," he said softly. I snuggled into his protective embrace.

"I was ashamed," I muttered. I was ashamed of being shunted into a domestic arts class. I was ashamed of being denied entrance into an optimum class because of my sex. And for the first time…_ever_, I believe, I hadn't been able to find the words to explain why I was so upset. Sexism was nothing new to anyone in family, but this situation was unfamiliar to me. For the first time, I could see no way to get _my_ way. And contrary to what I suspected Edward thought I was wired to do, I wasn't going to demand that my father do something drastic to change the circumstances.

"We'll do something," Alice assured me. "You don't have to put up with this."

Emmett's eyes met mine and I knew we were thinking the exact same thing: I just might have to.

xxxXxxx

It was a long day. Alice pined for Jasper all through study hall ("Listen, I miss Jasper too, Alice, but I don't want to hear about it anymore!"), some girl in a hideous blouse that seemed to be all frills spilled tomato soup on me at lunch, and when I walked out of the bathroom after wiping off my clothes, I found Edward physically pulling Emmett away from the guidance counselor's office.

I heard him hissing at Emmett while he was half wrestling him away from the door, "Do you really want to go for a third accident you have to explain to Carlisle, Emmett?"

Emmett, not to be soothed, growled, "This one wouldn't be an accident, Ed."

After Edward and I had sorted that out, I walked back into the bathroom and washed my hands. The frill-bitch had gotten soup on them, and the Poise teacher would be checking our nails at the beginning of class.

xxxXxxx

It was six o'clock in the evening, and I was up to my elbows in garden soil. It was a mark of how much I loved my mother that I was getting dirty just for some stupid bulbs.

"I thought you're supposed to plant tulip bulbs in autumn, Esme," I griped. Esme wiped a smudge of dirt off her face, though her dirty glove just made the mess worse. She smiled at me.

"As long as bulbs have six weeks of cold earth, it doesn't matter when you plant them," she said. I muttered something indistinct and proceeded to pulverize my bulb. Gardening just wasn't my thing.

Esme put down her trowel and studied me for a moment. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about, dear? I'm all ears."

I weighed my options. Maybe Esme would understand. Maybe she'd see why I was so rattled, and why I couldn't say anything. Or maybe she'd go straight to Carlisle. I decided to go for it.

"I'm not allowed to take Engines Shop. They're making me take Poise class instead." I carefully patted down the disturbed earth and pulled another bulb out of the little bag. Esme was quiet for a moment and then joined me again.

"Ah, Poise class. I've heard." She smiled a tiny bit. "You've mentioned it once or twice." Talk about an understatement, I thought. "But you didn't mention anything about not being allowed to take Engines Shop," she said, rather pointedly. "How long has this been an issue?"

"First day of school," I said. And then it all came out: how disgusted I was, how embarrassed I was, how futile my every attempt at change seemed, and especially how much I didn't want to bother Carlisle with my pretty pathetic problems. After all, this was nothing new; why should I even try?

Esme's eyes got narrower throughout my tale. At the end, she looked positively fearsome. "Go to Carlisle now," she ordered. When I opened my mouth to protest, she added, "Or I will." I my reflection in her eyes—now coal black—and knew I was looking into the eyes of a mother who felt that her child was threatened, like a tigress might feel for her cubs.

Hard to argue with that…

xxxXxxx

Carlisle leaned back in his office chair and sighed. I had just finished telling him everything, though I had been careful not to ask him to do anything about it.

"I'm sorry that you've had to put up with this for so long, Rosalie," he said sadly. I could tell he meant it. "But why you didn't ask me to intervene is beyond me."

"I didn't see a need," I mumbled. I wanted to prove to Edward that I wasn't a self-centered narcissist, in point of fact. But I wasn't about to tell Carlisle _that_.

"And I take it that Edward knows, but you asked him to say nothing." He eyed me speculatively and shook his head. "Edward, a word," he said, no more loudly than our conversation had been, but Edward heard them. He strolled in a moment later, his face inscrutable.

"You called?"

"Please enlighten us to what's really going on here."

Edward stared at Carlisle for a second. "It's just like Rosalie said. She wants to take Engine Shop, but they won't let her because she's female."

Carlisle seemed to be thinking very hard about something. He turned to us. "I'm going to call the school and talk to the principal. I think he could use a little reminding that keeping you out of Engines Shop because of your gender is illegal."

"It's just an old tradition, but in Rosalie's defense, she doesn't really need poise lessons," Edward said. I grabbed Edward by his shoulder and steered him out of the room, glancing over my shoulder when we were at the door.

"Thanks, Carlisle," I called. He waved to me, his phone at his ear.

I snapped the door shut, trying to ignore Edward's face. He was utterly amused by the situation. "Well, that went well, I think," he said pleasantly.

"You're free to go do your little dance in hell now," I muttered before walking away.

xxxXxxx

I gazed down at my brand new schedule and smiled. There, right between lunch and Earth Science was Engines Shop. Carlisle could work wonders.

I pushed open the thick wooden door to the Engines Shop room and inhaled deeply. Metal, grease, oil, and so many other heavenly scents danced in my nose. God, they smelled so good! The teacher, a Mr. Hannoly according to my schedule, looked up from a dissembled carburetor. "Can I help you?"

I strode over to him and handed him my schedule. "I'm taking your class now. My name is Rosalie Hale."

A strange smugness passed over his face for a fleeting second and then was gone. I knew the look well; it was the look Edward got whenever his little ability helped him prove me wrong about something. "Ah, yes," Mr. Hannoly said quietly. "Please put your books over on the side table."

Other students—all boys, the same ones who had been lusting over my car a few days previous, in fact—began to file into the classroom. Most of them saw me, did a double take, saw my books on the table, and did another double take. A colored boy whom I had never seen before walked in and put his books down on the desk. He made his way over to me and grinned. It was a sunny sort of grin, just like Emmett's. I decided that I would be nice to this one. For now.

"I'm Ken," he said. I nodded, waiting for more. He continued. "You're the girl who drives the Mustang, right? Did you do all those modifications yourself? Because if you did, _wow_, you should be in Engines II." At that moment his brain caught up with his mouth and he realized that he was babbling. I smiled a little.

"Thanks. And yes, I did all the modifications in my garage. No help. My brothers are sort of jealous, I think." Okay, that last part was a lie, but a girl could dream.

A fresh wave of whispers met my ears. The group of boys had heard me mention "my brothers" and automatically assumed that I was crediting them for the utter beauty of my automobile. I ignored them and settled into casual conversation with Ken until Mr. Hannoly called the class to order. I made to sit in the front, but Ken shook his head.

"Things will be easier for you if you sit in the back." He sat down in the back row and patted the seat next to him. One of the whispering boys sat down in the seat I had intended for myself and shot me a look of complete disbelief, then snorted. I glowered and sat down next to Ken, my arms crossed over my chest. This wasn't going how I had hoped _at all_.

As everyone else found a seat, I noticed that Ken and I were the only occupants of the back row. People took one look at me and suppressed laughter, then saw Ken and chose another row. Ken must have seen my eyes travel back and forth while watching people walk away from us, because he whispered dully, "Get used to it."

Mr. Hannoly eventually hushed everyone and gestured to me. "Rosalie is your new classmate," Mr. Hannoly explained. Everyone looked at me skeptically. _You just wait_, I thought. _I'm going to _own_ this class by the end of the semester_. Ken glanced at me with the strangest look on his face. It was almost sympathy, but harder, somehow. I let it pass.

A few minutes later we had all sat down in front of a projector for some kind of chapter review. This was going to be easy. As I thought, Mr. Hannoly flashed a slide of an engine part and he'd call on people to identify it.

An image of little coffee can shapes with plus and minus signs. Easy: ignition system. I raised my hand. Someone else answered the question.

A bunch of round metal pieces attached by a pole in the middle. Cylinders. Again, someone else answered. The same thing happened for half an hour: I always knew but was never called.

When a slide of a very complicated piece of machinery went up, only two people knew that it was an internal combustion engine, me and a boy two rows ahead of me. Mr. Hannoly's eyes flickered from my face to the boy's and that same smug look settled on his features. He called on the boy and I put my hand down.

"A single-cylinder stirling engine," he said.

Ha HA, now was my moment to shine! I put my hand up so fast that Ken jumped in his seat a little bit. _Internal combustion_, I thought. _Internal combustion! _I mouthed the words a little and my hand was trembling in the air. Mr. Hannoly met my gaze and he smiled that horrible smile. I put my hand down. Mr. Hannoly looked away and turned off the projector.

"That was an internal combustion engine, gentlemen. We'll be studying them for the next two weeks. Please open your books to page 346."

As I walked to my desk, Ken glanced at me again with that strange look. This time, though, I knew what it was. Behind him, reflected perfectly on the chrome supply cabinet, was my face, and it had the exact same look on it.


	10. Marcus

When somebody loved me, everything was beautiful.  
Every hour we spent together, lives within my heart.  
And when she was sad, I was there to dry her tears.  
And when she was happy, so was I.

When she loved me.

Through the summer and the fall, we had each other, that was all.  
Just she and I together, like it was meant to be.  
And when she was lonely, I was there to comfort her.  
And I knew that she loved me.

Sarah McLachlan, "When She Loved Me"

**Marcus' Story**

_"Would you like to be married, Marcus?"_

_I blink, confused. What an odd question. "Why do you ask such a thing?"_

_She laughs. It rings like the angelic tinkling of cathedral bells, lovely as the psalms. "Because I think I would like a wedding ceremony, with orange blossoms and a beautiful blue dress. Just like a human bride. They do look heavenly, you know." She strokes my chest lightly and breathes into my ear, "Wouldn't you like to see me as a bride?"_

_I tuck a strand of raven-colored hair behind her ear. She knows I can deny her nothing. "No parchment or ceremony can tell the world how much I love you, Cressa. But if you wish to be married, so it shall be."_

**xxxXxxx**

I folded my hands on the table and waited for Aro to speak. Not that he had even called the meeting, but Aro _always_ has something to say. But whether there are ideas to be communicated underneath the inane chatter is another matter. Just as I thought, Aro spoke first.

"Heidi will be hunting tomorrow during the St. Marcus Day festival." He smiled saccharinely at Heidi, whose eyes sparkled with anticipation.

Jane chuckled. "Bring back some little ones this time, Heidi. I don't like having to knock my food down to feed while you guys can just go for the neck because it's within reach."

Aro stroked Jane's hair and she beamed. "The festival means tourists. We'll be feeding in the west antechamber."

Heidi rose. "Thank you, Aro. I called a meeting to inform you that Felix and I will be leaving for New York City for a week on Wednesday. We'll be gone about a week."

My mind wandered. This whole system was so stupid. I waved my hand absently to show my consent, though the action was practically meaningless. I didn't care a whit about what Heidi and her French bonbon did.

Aro and Heidi enthusiastically discussed the vampire population in and around New York City, and I wondered vaguely if they had recently fed on LSD addicts. At one point, Caius met my gaze and rolled his eyes. Jane jumped in on the conversation with her own recommendations of pleasant places to visit during the daytime. I silently willed the entire castle to collapse on us. I hadn't tried being crushed to death yet; maybe it would be the thing that finally killed me.

"—I've heard of places by the docks where prostitutes trawl. The pickings are supposed to be good."

…Prostitutes. Surely she jests.

The swish of a cloak alerted us to a new presence. Alec stood in the doorway to our chamber. He had a slightly surprised look on his face, as though he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "Masters, there's someone here to see you." He looked at Aro, Caius, and me specifically. "Edward Cullen, the…_son_ of Carlisle Cullen."

**xxxXxxx**

_"Isn't this just wonderful, Marcus?" We are sitting on the alabaster railing of her balcony, the city bonfires glowing below us and the stars in the heavens twinkling above us. But I'm not looking at any of that. A far more dazzling sight is two inches from my face._

_I smile. "Yes, you are." She is the most beautiful thing in the world; surely she must be speaking of herself—what could be more wonderful than her?_

_Cressa takes my face in her hands and kisses me deeply, and even though the flow of blood in my veins has been absent for two thousand years, I am warm._

_"Actually, I was talking about the stars, but thank you anyway." She runs her perfect fingers through my hair. Below us, humans are playing flutes and harps in celebration of St. Marcus Day. Apparently, I drove the vampire hordes from the city a few centuries back. Or something like that._

_Cressa listens to the tune and turns to me. "I know a dance," she whispers in my ear. She wraps her arm around my waist and places her hand on my thigh. _

_I look into her deep ruby eyes. "I'll dance with you."_

**xxxXxxx**

Aro's face lit up. "A member of the mysterious Cullen family has finally arrived? _Marvelous_!"

Whatever.

We walked to the main chamber, not sure what to expect. A young man of no more than twenty human years was standing in the middle of the room, his eyes shut, fingertips pressed tightly into his temple. He looked as though he were under a great amount of stress, to say the least.

Aro approached cautiously and kept a few feet between them, for even though this Edward claimed to be Carlisle's "son", we knew nothing about him. Edward opened his eyes, but his pitch black irises revealed nothing about his feeding habits, except that he hadn't fed in a while.

"Alec tells us that you are Carlisle's son," Aro said. Edward nodded.

"I am. Carlisle changed me in 1918."

Carlisle had changed him. Carlisle, who professed an eternal abstinence from human blood, had chosen this man-child from the vast millions in the world to be his companion in a mind-blowingly difficult quest to deny what instinct cried out for. Carlisle seemed to think he could do it. I felt a tug of respect for both Carlisle and this Edward.

Caius decided to get straight to the point. Leave it to him to throw subtlety and caution out the window. "Why are you here, Edward Cullen? Does Carlisle require aid?"

I suddenly remembered how much Caius had enjoyed Carlisle's brief stay with us; I don't like to talk, and Aro likes to talk too much, so Carlisle must have been a welcome change.

Edward's face twisted in some sort of anguish. "No." He took a deep breath. "I've come to ask a favor."

Aro nodded happily. "Just name it, Edward. It'll be from us to Carlisle. Ah, how I miss him." Aro clasped his hands happily. "He was always willing to learn about our kind and share theories. I'm sure you are familiar with the scientific side of him, Edward. Carlisle always had such a keen mind." He chuckled heartily.

Was Aro completely _blind_? Could he not see the torture on Edward's face? Somehow, I knew what Edward was going to say before he said it. I could see…no, _sense_ is the better word, a brokenness around Edward. The edges were sharp as thorns and made my skin prickle.

"I've…the woman I love…my…_mate_, is dead." He choked out the last word. "Please, kill me. Please. I have no reason to live anymore."

**xxxXxxx**

_"Why would anyone challenge the Volturi?" Cressa wonders aloud. "It's suicide."_

_"Because they believe they can win," I say with a laugh. "But strength isn't always in numbers. Don't worry, Cressa. We'll defeat them."_

_"Oh, I'm not worried, exactly," she assures me. But there is a serious look in her eyes and her brow furrows the tiniest bit._

_"What is it?" I ask anxiously._

_"A premonition, I think," she whispers._

_I hug her protectively. "Nothing will ever hurt you, I swear."_

_Cressa shakes her head. "I've been getting them for a month, and they're becoming stronger. Something…terrible is about to happen, Marcus. I can feel it."_

_I hold Cressa in my arms and pray to the gods that she is, for once, wrong. She is my love, my life. Whatever happens, I know I'll be all right as long as I have my goddess by my side._

**xxxXxxx**

There was no sound for many seconds. Finally, Aro spoke again. "Dead, Edward?" He shook his head sadly. "Tragedy sometimes ruins even the most heavenly of romances. I do so prefer happy endings." Once again, Aro lapsed into thinking aloud. "The beautiful heroine, murdered by the forces of evil. The hero is incomplete and can not advance in his plot, because his is one with hers." He spoke to us all now. "I've often thought our kind is much too violent with each other." He sighed heavily. "This is not an easy thing you ask, Edward. Tell us, what was the lady's name?"

Edward was on the verge of hysterics, I could tell. "Bella," he whispered, so quietly that I could barely hear, even with my superhuman hearing.

"Bella," Aro murmured. "_Il vostro Bella bella_." He began to pace. "I will not hasten to take the life of my brother's son, Edward.

Caius brought Aro back to reality with a sharp step toward the two. He gestured to Felix and his friend Demitri, who were watching curiously by his throne. "I think our guard will be more than willing to dispatch _la bella_'s murderer. That is, if you haven't already," he added with a dark laugh.

I was standing in a vacuum, a black hole. An odd awareness crept through my veins, making my fingers tingle. Everything was loud and obnoxious. I didn't even blink. For the first time in 167 years, I was utterly engrossed in the moment. My heart felt alive again, if only the tiniest bit. I recognized the way Edward's face twisted at Aro's offer, and knew that the words in his mouth were the foulest he had ever said.

"She wasn't murdered. She…she killed herself."

Wait…what?

He held up his hand for Aro to touch—Carlisle must have filled him in on our abilities—and waited. Aro's face changed from sadness to surprise, and then settled on mild disbelief. He stared at Edward.

"She was _human_?"

**xxxXxxx**

_"Marcus! They're in the dungeons! We have to surround them!" Caius yells from somewhere behind me. Cressa bursts through a door and grins devilishly._

_"Two less for them," she says._

_We run deeper into the fortress. Rival vampires from the east have broken through our guard and have penetrated our inner sanctum. It's my job to find the leader and his lieutenants. Even the most organized teams can be dissolved just by picking off the key operatives._

_We enter the ancient dungeons, the gloom broken only by torches resting in iron sconces. It's quiet. Too quiet. Before we can turn around, hands separate us. There are six enemy vampires, and Cressa and I are outnumbered three to one. The largest one lunges at me and my sixth sense tells me I am fighting the leader. Two, four, six hands struggle to hold me down. Behind me, Cressa roars in fury. I can't help but grin quickly; that roar always spells doom for whomever she is fighting._

_I tear the head off one of my opponents and he crumples, his body immobile. I jump on the…other? Where did the third go? In the quarter second it takes me to comprehend this new horror, the enemy secures their victory._

_A primal, agonized, horrific scream fills the room. I cannot see around my adversary, and when I do manage to kill him, my brothers have already entered the room and hidden from view what I know is there but cannot bear to see._

**xxxXxxx**

Almost everyone was completely dumbstruck at this revelation. Only Caius, who considers any time spent on a human wasted, remained scowling.

Whispers broke out and various members of the guard talked behind their hands to one another.

"Human?" Alec's brow furrowed. "Isn't this a bit overdramatic for a human pet?"

"Why would he fall for a _human_?" Two of the female guards, Lila and Elizabeth, discussed their disappointment in this "fetching" newcomer. Something about personal taste.

"How could he manage it?" Only Heidi saw some sort of positive. She gave Edward yet another once-over, clearly even more impressed by him now that he reportedly had such extraordinary self-control. Felix noticed this and threw a withering look at Edward.

"I want to know why she killed herself." Jane was bouncing with glee. To her, I was sure, Edward's pain had became her plaything as soon as she found out that the source was some pathetic human.

"I don't understand." Demitri's thought processes couldn't rationalize interspecies relationships besides that of predator and prey.

"_Enough_!"

I spoke the word before I thought about it. Perhaps it was the anger in my voice that silenced everyone, or maybe it was the shock of my raised volume, or even that I spoke at all. I was fairly certain that some of the newer members of the guard had never heard me speak before. I pointed to Aro, then to Edward. "Aro, enlighten us. Many here do not understand."

Aro was just as surprised by my sudden outburst but quickly overcame it. He turned to face everyone else.

"It seems that Edward had the fortune to meet _il suo cantante_." Appreciative murmurs floated around the room. I ignored them. "She was the new girl, the mysterious object of affection to the human men, but still a nothing. But fate, the most omnipotent of us all, drew them together." He was speaking in a low, jovial tone that I had come to think of as the "grandfather" voice. That voice never failed to irritate me.

"But instead of killing her, and countless others, in that warm, tiny classroom, he fled!" He turned around with a flourish to face us all. A muscle leaped in my jaw. "But in his heart our Edward knew that he could not hide in the mountains forever. So he returned to his family, determined to ignore this human with the holy fragrance in her veins."

"Time passed, of course. Her blood always called to him. But instead of taking _la bella Bella_'s life, he sought to know her more." He turned back to Edward, and I knew his eyes would be sympathetic. "And even though you tried not to, you fell in love with her."

_Yes_, I thought irritably. _We already know this. But why did she die?_

I had to know the whole story. Edward had said his Bella had killed herself. What had she done, cut her finger and waved it back and forth in front of him? I immediately dismissed that idea; no human was _that _stupid. As I wondered this, Edward gave me a quick, horrified glance.

**xxxXxxx**

_Caius puts his hand on my shoulder. "Marcus," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."_

_I am frozen. My eyes are open, but I see nothing. There is a ringing in my ears. I move toward the crowd of Volturi, but Caius grips my shoulder tighter. "You don't want to see it, Marcus."_

_I shove him away. It'll be Cressa, just minorly injured. Nothing that can't be healed. She is so strong. So beautiful. And did I not swear to her that nothing would ever hurt her? _

_Aro turns and grips my shoulders, hard. "Marcus," he says. "You shall have your revenge. I will not rest until every one of the invaders have burned."_

_I can't see Cressa. Where is Cressa? "Move, Aro," I say. Aro lowers his eyes and steps aside, as do the others._

_Before me is the mangled remains of the woman I love. There is no hope. _

_I sink to my knees, then on my elbows. Even the foulest demon in the deepest circle of hell trembles at the sound of my scream._

**xxxXxxx**

Aro began to pace again. "You see, Edward loved this human girl, but he knew that she did not love him back the same way. At least, he thought so. He couldn't _really_ know. And Edward knows _many_ things, because he is a mind reader! Every little thing that passes through every mind at every moment is his to hear! The gods have given Edward a monumental gift, they have."

A mind reader. Now I understood Aro's delight. Ever the talent scout, Aro. I could see where this little speech was going. I also understood Edward's little glance at me when I considered Bella's demise.

"Now you see, normally Edward can hear every little thought—at a _distance_—that passes through a person's head, but not Bella's." Aro pondered that for a minute. "That was most frustrating for you." He eyed Edward speculatively. "You could never hear what Bella thought when you held her, or kissed her, or told her you loved her," he said quietly. Edward inhaled a tiny bit. "You had to look into her eyes, her wide brown eyes, to glimpse the workings of her mind." Edward hid his face in his hands and I would have bet my half-life that he was seeing those "wide brown eyes" behind his own. "She had the most communicative eyes, of course. They always betrayed her. Whenever she hid what she felt, her eyes would show her fear, or amusement." Aro's voice dipped to a whisper. "Or despair." Edward nodded, his face still in his hands.

Cruelty. That is what this whole speech was. If I hadn't known Aro for three millennia, I'd have thought Aro was enjoying tormenting Edward. For indeed, Edward was shaking. I knew those shakes. My heart swelled a little more. Was this…pity?

Aro returned to storyteller mode and picked up raving again. "Edward and Bella had a few happy months in the summertime. They relaxed at his house with the other Cullens, drove around in his car—Bella hated how fast Edward drives—or just sat together in the front seats and enjoyed each other's company. Once, when rain canceled an outing, they arranged a picnic in Edward's room! Only Bella ate, of course, but it was a day of merriment nonetheless." He chortled to himself at—Edward's—memory. Edward was shaking again.

"But the fact remained that she was human and Edward and his extraordinarily large family—seven strong, in fact—were vampires. It all culminated at Bella's eighteenth birthday celebration, when she cut her finger, and Edward's brother Jasper, who is newer to Carlisle's lifestyle, could not control himself."

Edward flinched. He was reliving what was probably one of the most painful days of his long life, and I wished for his sake that Aro would stop. But he plowed on in his retelling. After all, I had told him to fill us in on the details, had I not? I instantly regretted ever opening my mouth.

"Edward knew that this was an omen of what Bella's life would be like if he stayed. He had to leave her. She'd get over it. Time would heal her of any wounds. After all, isn't that how it always goes? The hero must do what's best for the heroine, even if it means leaving. The heroine would pine in high tower, of course, but time would win out eventually and another Prince Charming would come along and sweep her off her feet. Her life would go on, even if his had ended forever." He looked at Edward, who lowered his hands but was unable to look Aro in the face, ashamed. "Isn't that what you thought, Edward?"

I had a fleeting desire to throw something, anything—my throne, the door, Demitri—at Aro. Anything to make him _stop talking_.

He turned to us all. "Yesterday, Edward got a telephone call from his sister Rosalie. She told him Bella had committed suicide, jumped off a cliff." Aro sighed resignedly. "He had underestimated Bella's reaction. Life without Edward wasn't life at all." He thought about that for a moment. "It is rather like dear Sybil, from the fascinatingly dark Picture of Dorian Gray. Dorian informed Sybil that he was no longer interested in her, and she took her life." He glanced apologetically at Edward. "Though obviously, you care a great deal about Bella's death. Dorian really _was_ a heartless fiend." He shook his head. "I really do wish that Bella were here to see that Edward isn't the cruel man that Dorian was. It's a shame that she had to die with that bit of false knowledge."

Edward's eyes were closed now, shut so tightly that his forehead was creased like an old human face. He was still shaking, though this time in little bursts, almost like sobs. I couldn't watch. This had to end, now. I walked forward to Aro and placed my hand on his shoulder, though I looked at Edward.

"We'll discuss your request in our private chamber. Please wait here until then," I said with the edge of authority, but with what I hoped was some sort of positive comforting tone.

Away. I had to get away. The emotions were rushing over me with such a force that I felt like a river had washed over me, and I was struggling to break the surface. I needed to find a dark room and scream, scream until the very foundations of the earth were as cracked and warped as my heart.

Caius looked at me warily and a silent communication passed between us. _Aro will never understand._

**xxxXxxx**

"He'd be dead useful." Heidi was sure of this. "Imagine being able to know where an enemy is lurking just by concentrating on his thoughts!" She shook her head. "I say leave him alive." She giggled indulgently. "And it's high time we had some new _muscle_ to look at."

Jane scowled. "Your dedication to your husband is an inspiration to us all, Heidi," she said acidly. Heidi grinned impishly. Jane ignored that. "He'd be useful…I guess. Aro's ability, though useful, has always demanded dangerous proximity. But I don't like him, or his taste in sex bunnies."

Sex bunnies. Jane called the human, Bella, a sex bunny. I knew then and there that Jane's distaste with Edward had nothing to do with his romantic choosing at all. No, Jane was jealous. Jealous that Aro liked Edward's ability just as much as hers. Maybe even more, as Edward could gather information and keep Aro safe. I was disgusted. Jane wasn't two hundred years old; she had been thirteen for two hundred years.

Aro sighed. "I cannot condone killing the son of my friend and ally. Carlisle was a joy to have, and I would not ever willingly kill someone he clearly calls his own, nor would I want to count Carlisle among my enemies. And as Jane and Heidi said, his ability would be an unimaginable asset to us. I think we should offer him a place among us." He stroked his chin sadly. "It would be rather anticlimactic, though…"

NO. He doesn't actually—

"…normally I'd rather just let a story this engaging play out like the tragic romance it is."

He does.

"But no matter how much I wish the hero reunited with his heroine, Edward is better off alive."

Caius wanted to throw in his two cents. "I don't think he'd accept the offer, Aro." He crossed his arms. "But I will not kill anyone Carlisle counts as family."

All eyes turned on me. Now was the time.

"I think we should kill him."

_"Would you like to be married, Marcus?"_

Aro looked at me quizzically and I explained.

"There is nothing, _nothing,_ which can describe the pain of true loss. At first, the pain is like a hole in your chest, and it is so real that you are incapacitated by it."

_"Actually, I was thinking of the stars…"_

"You feel the pain go away, eventually. But it doesn't really go away. It becomes _nothing_. There is _nothing_ there. All you can do is wander the earth and look for what you'll never find."

_"I know a dance."_

I stood up. "Edward came here asking for mercy, and the most merciful thing we could do is to make his death as quick as possible."

_"Why would anyone challenge the Volturi? It's suicide."_

"Edward will never join us. If we refuse his request, we will find a way to force us to act. We have but one law, and I know he will find a way to break it. Then we'll _have_ to kill him. And if you think Carlisle would be upset if you loosed the guard on his son, imagine how upset he'll be if we have to kill Edward and everyone he exposes himself to, as exposure is the only transgression we can punish him for."

_"Something…terrible is about to happen, Marcus. I can feel it."_

I sat down and covered my eyes. "I will not regret killing Edward. My only regret is not seeking my own death a thousand years ago."

_"Two less for them," she says._

"I say kill him, and let him be in peace with Bella."

The four of them sat around that round table slack-jawed, stunned into silence.

**xxxXxxx**

We filed into the main chamber. Edward hadn't moved an inch, but I hadn't expected him to. Aro stepped forward.

"We have discussed your request, Edward. By majority we agree that we won't kill you." Edward's face fell more, a feat I wouldn't have thought possible. He shrank away from us a little bit, as though Aro had rebuked him very sharply.

"We feel it would be wasteful to destroy such a remarkable talent, so we offer an alternative. The Volturi always has room for expansion, and we would be pleased to have you with us."

Edward gave Aro a stare that said plainly, _are you kidding? _He stepped back.

"No, thank you, Aro. I must decline your offer." There was an edge of bitter amusement in his words that I could fully understand. "Our" offer had to seem perplexingly ironic, to ask for death and instead get an invitation to join the Volturi.

"We trust you won't do anything rash, then," Aro said sternly. "Please, consider our offer. It still stands. You could bring so much to the Volturi with your mind-reading. Such a gift has only been imagined."

Edward's eyes had become mysteriously blank. "No, I won't do anything _rash_," he murmured. "Good day to you all." Then he was gone. Aro beckoned Felix and Demitri forward.

"Follow him. Make sure he keeps the law. He's going to try something, and I don't want you to have to kill him because of it. If it looks like he's going to expose himself, bring him to me." The two thugs exchanged grins and left. The rest of the guard went back to whatever they had been doing before the recent drama. Aro and Caius disappeared in the direction of the lobby. I was left standing by my throne.

Above me, thousands of people were preparing for the St. Marcus Day festival. They celebrated in vain. The one time vampire hordes _had_ stormed the city, I didn't save the only one I ever loved. Somewhere up there, a broken man was thinking about how he didn't save the one _he_ loved. Would he make a public display of his strength? Walk into the sunlight? Perhaps he'd attack someone in the crowd. I hoped that Edward would be quick enough to do whatever it was he was going to do so that when it happened, Felix and Demitri would have to kill him, and his pain would be over. He'd be with his lady love.

One final rush of emotion filled my chest before my heart crumbled away forever: envy.


End file.
